frozen bones
by coffee-not-decaf
Summary: Merlin's fingers have a frequent habit of going numb. Arthur takes matters into his own hands.


Merlin was generally a very cold person.

Not in personality, mind you, Arthur was nearly certain he had never met a friendlier, more open human being in all his time alive. Merlin was the furthest thing from cruel, frigid, or callous, he always had a kind word for anyone who looked like they needed it, especially if that person was Arthur. He had the uncanny ability to read Arthur's mind, or at least his mood, and knew exactly what he needed to say and how he needed to say it, soft and caring and –

Ahem.

That, Arthur decided, was a bit off subject.

The point was that Merlin was not cold in his ways with people. He was cold in _temperature. _

He never stopped shivering, even when the sun beat down on Camelot in bright and beaming rays, and he was constantly wearing those stupid scarves around his neck and rubbing his hands together and bothering Arthur to share a bedroll when they were out hunting because Arthur's was nice and soft whereas Merlin's was limp and sparse with a great variety of holes –

Again.

Off subject.

Arthur could deal with all of this, however. He was well-aware with the seemingly never-ending list of his manservant's afflictions, physical, mental, or otherwise, and he suffered through it with all the grace and dignity bore into him at a formative age.

There was only one part of Merlin's body of ice that he could not handle.

"My fingers are numb again," Merlin whined as he flexed his hands in a way that decidedly did _not _make Arthur look up from the notes, battle plans, and treaties strewn across his desk to give his manservant a long and lingering glance at where he was supposed to be laying out Arthur's clothing for the feast that night.

Arthur sighed, loudly and dramatically and with no abandon. "Didn't Gaius give you a salve to help with that?"

Merlin's fingers, Arthur had found, were delicate and fragile things that Merlin often could not feel in the slightest, no matter how sunny the day happened to be. It was a wonder the man was still alive, quite honestly, and expecting him to do little else than complain, let alone do his chores, was a lost cause.

"Doesn't help," Merlin muttered under his breath as he made a rude face at Arthur, wiggling his fingers a bit more as he kicked a chair out from the long, wooden table that was the only decoration on the left side of Arthur's room, dropping quite pathetically into the seat.

Arthur determinedly ignored the pointed look Merlin was giving him. "You can leave if you wish to. I have important work to do, and you'll only interfere."

"You mean distract," Merlin's knowing smile was too much and Arthur studiously bent further down to look at the semantics Leon had sketched out the day before. He was blessedly silent for a moment, but Merlin combined with quiet never lasted for long. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing you can help with," Arthur answered automatically, without heat. "You'd only muck it up anyway."

"Only if it would require use of my hands," Merlin lifted his fingers up to his mouth to puff a heavy breath of warm air against them. Arthur did not look over, could not look over.

"Get out of here, go find Gaius – I'm sure he can find a use for you," Arthur dipped his quill in the inkwell to begin writing out a speech for the night. To be honest, he wasn't much good at this part of kingship – Merlin did well at it, at words, and he might have commanded Merlin to write this for him if his manservant was not currently trying to steam up his hands with nothing more than sheer will and his hot mouth.

Merlin didn't respond, too busy attempting to light Arthur's chambers on fire with the quick and heavy rubbing of his hands together, loud and echoing in the small chamber.

Arthur looked across and gave up all forms of pretense.

"Oh, honestly," he threw his quill down on the parchment to stride across the room purposefully, and perhaps slightly angrily, judging by Merlin's disturbed and hesitant gaze over at him. He had stopped his unnecessary _rubbing_, at the very least.

Arthur, force and might, yanked one of the other carved chairs toward Merlin so that when Arthur sat, the two were facing each other, eye level, less than a foot separating their bodies.

"Arthur, what are you –" Merlin began, part curiosity, part suspicion, and part sarcasm, but his voice trailed off when Arthur grabbed at his hands to hold them tightly in his own.

"You're such an idiot; you know that?" Arthur told Merlin, who looked like he was trying very hard not to gape. His hands, Arthur realized, were stupidly frozen, icy to the touch. God, it was no wonder Merlin never got anything done. Holding them firmly, Arthur began to move his own fingers up and down against Merlin's, as if breathing life back into them.

"I'm aware," Merlin's voice was somewhat strangled, but Arthur was ignoring that. He had _no_ idea what the hell had possessed him to this, to hold Merlin's hands and rub slow circles against them, to press his fingers flat against his own palm and stop winter from seeping into them –

No idea.

None at all.

"Mm. You're warm." Merlin, apparently, had been given ample time to adjust to this twist of events, and he was even grinning, letting Arthur lean down and sigh heavily against Merlin's fingertips. He managed to convince himself that sucking on one or two with his tongue was a terrible idea that should never be explored under any circumstances.

"And you're an icicle," Arthur informed him tartly, returning to rubbing his thumb across long expanses of pale skin. "I hope you realize what a benevolent monarch I am – I can't think of any king who would ever willingly _help _his manservant's strange afflictions."

"I've always said you were special," Merlin laughed.

The crooked smile Arthur received made this entire spectacle worth it.


End file.
